Chapter 13

Thirteen

She was in a castel that could only be Blackwood.

Born in London, neither Rosalynde nor Arwyn had ever chanced to see their family estate in Bannau Brycheiniog, but she recalled every word of Elspeth's stories, and she envisioned it clearly… the ivy-tangled courtyard with the sacred cauldron once tended by Gwion, that boy who'd stolen the Witch Goddess's potion. Pregnant still, and fat with its great iron belly, the cauldron sat above a ring of blackened stones, the fire beneath it burning with an eternal flame. Rose couldn't see what was being brewed within, but she watched smoke that curled above the cauldron and rose into the open courtyard toward a cloudless blue sky, rushing past lichen-covered stone…

And then, suddenly, she herself was the smoke… drifting through rusted metal bars and coalescing into a solid form…

Here, from her prison bower, she had a view of the Endless Sea… and outside her door stood a man… leaning against the wall, facing away, so she couldn't see his face, though she could still hear his voice. "There is no future but the one your mother has ordained."

Familiar laughter. "Ah, my lord… the Goddess truly works in mysterious ways. You have yet to realize what you would give to win your true desire."

Silence.

"And what if my desire is you?"

Like wisps of smoke from the cauldron, her lips curved into a slow smile, and she laughed again, very softly, even as her nipples hardened with desire. "And you jest, my lord… but you will learn… the heart wants what it wants."

Silence.

"No matter what you may call yourself, your blood is Welsh, lest you forget… and I know what you really want."

She was not afraid, though his words should engender fear. "You will never leave here… Rhiannon," he said, angry, and then she heard him push off the wall and walk away.

His footsteps echoed sharply on the ancient stone.

Silence was the gift of his departure.

Rhiannon!

Rosalynde's eyes flew wide to find it was late afternoon.

She was horrified to discover herself resting like a limp doll in Giles's arms. Straightening at once, embarrassed, she saw that he'd laid a hand atop her grimoire, holding it fast, and without meaning to, Rosalynde wrenched the Book away with a gasp.

"Pardon," he said. "I feared you would drop it and I didn't wish to wake you."

Disoriented still, Rosalynde jerked forward, trying to gauge how far they'd come. As far as she could tell, they were still alive… and still on the King's Road.

On the road, their ambling shadows formed gargoyles—two of them: one big one small—with hoofed protuberances pawing at the ground, and thick bodies with strange appendages growing from their middles, five jouncing heads. For a befuddled instant, she studied the grotesque shadows, realizing that Wilhelm must have fallen behind, and she turned to find him hunched over his horse, somehow dozing. "How long have I been sleeping?" she asked.

"A bit longer than Wilhelm."

Rose tilted her head, stretching the cords of her neck, and turned again to peer at Wilhelm, marveling over the contortion of his body and his curious ability to sleep in his saddle. At least she'd had Giles to hold her, and for that she was thankful. And nevertheless, she was horrified to discover that, like Rhiannon's had in her dream, her nipples were pebbled and straining against the course wool of her nun's habit. Defensively, she pressed the grimoire closer.

Ignoring her traitorous body, she considered the dream. Could it be that her sister had given her a glimpse into her cage? Or, was it only an invention of Rosalynde's tired, overwrought mind?

Some dewines could descry by dreams—Rhiannon did so all the time, but Rosalynde had never once had any occurrence herself, and she only knew it because Rhiannon had told her so, not because her sister had ever infiltrated her dreams before. And yet, no dewine worth her blood would ever ignore a message from the aether, and it was quite possible Rhiannon had discovered a safer way to mindspeak.

"I'm guessing you mustn't have rested well last night," Giles said. "Much to be expected, there aren't many ladies I know who could sleep so well in the woods."

Clearly, he didn't know her. Rosalynde could sleep anywhere, and the forest was like a second home to her.

Once, she'd fallen asleep in an elm tree, like a cat, and her sisters had worried all day long until she'd returned to the priory that evening. Even so, she was chagrined to confess, even if only to herself, that she had rested far more easily in Giles's arms than she had in her warded pentacle.

"Speaking of woods, my lord..." She peered up, looking at clear skies—completely unobstructed by the boughs of trees, in perfect view of Morwen's black-feathered spies. "Should we not seek the shade for a while?"

She turned to look at him with pleading eyes.

Giles blinkedat the sight of her very, very blue eyes… but he'd imagined they were green—a shade of green that recalled him to rich, thick moss, not this peculiar shade of blue that made him think of bellflowers.

"What is it?" she asked.

Giles scratched his chin, uncertain what it was, precisely.

"My lord?" She asked again, and he shook his head, averting his gaze, suffering the same bewildering sense of recognition he'd experienced this morning when he'd met her.

"'Tis naught," he said, determining that he must be over-weary.

So long as she'd been sleeping, he'd let her rest because he'd wanted to put as much distance between them and Darkwood as possible. He didn't care to alarm the girl, but he had a sense they were being followed, even despite that he couldn't see anyone. It was entirely possible they'd caught the attention of one of Darkwood's brigands, and the man was skilled enough to know how to track them, and perhaps wise enough to know that he couldn't prevail against two armed warriors—which also implied he must be alone, perhaps waiting for an opportune moment.

He hadn't bothered alerting Wilhelm only because his sword lay resting as quietly as the woman in his arms. Regretfully, stopping for the evening was inevitable and now was as good a time as any. He was the only one who hadn't managed to catch a kip in the saddle.

And, anyway, he'd already proven his point. Wilhelm had been dozing nearly as long as Rosalynde, and if he denied it, Giles had the girl as his witness. Clearly, his brother had judged himself in superior form. Alas, he was merely the bigger man. And, regardless, it annoyed Giles to no end that this unlooked-for competition had reduced him to a youth, fresh off the field, with balls bigger than his brains, and a yen to prove himself where he oughtn't bloody care to.

Sister Rosalynde was still looking at him, pleading, and he gave a short whistle, heard a waking snort, then an immediate shift in Wilhelm's gait. Without turning, he waved his brother into the woods, where the late afternoon sun sluiced through the limbs of naked oaks.

He found a spot near a small burn, where he could see clearly in three directions, and there he dismounted, then helped Sister Rosalynde down from his horse, making sure she was steady on her feet before releasing her...

Blue.

Her eyes were, indeed, blue. Bright as bellflowers.

And more… under the soft, dappled light of the forest, she appeared… different.

Softer, perhaps?

Peering up, over the dingy white veil she wore, her lovely blue eyes were filled with concern, and she held the book between them like a shield.

Amused, Giles released her, and gave the book a nod. "There's room in my satchel," he suggested. "Along with your cloak…"

"Nay, thank you," she said quickly, casting a glance at the sword in his scabbard, the shining rain guard catching her attention as it glinted by the sun. She gasped suddenly, gave a hasty pardon and hurried away, giving him the impression that his sword had intimidated her.

Shrugging, he watched her go, wondering again why she wouldn't wear her cloak. Clearly, she was cold, or she wouldn't have been so insistent about climbing beneath his own, and yet…

He had a feeling there was more to Sister Rosalynde than what she'd claimed… and despite her outward appearance, there was something about the lady that appealed to him. There was a spark of brilliance behind those chameleon eyes.

"Do not wander," he called after her. "Hurry back, or I'll come looking."